


Little Feet

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Saturday morning in the life of seven families.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts).



> Shannon had a craving for Modern AU kidfics, which I am ALWAYS up for, so here we go! First up are Mira and Chadara with their three boys: Adrian (3), Luke (7), and Dennis (9).

Mira didn’t even have to open her eyes. She heard the soft creak of the floorboards and groaned.

“Why is it that I am the _first one up_ for the entire week, and the _last_ on the weekend?”

Her bedroom door banged open as Chadara laughed, and two small bodies launched themselves on the bed. The two oldest were hopping up and down, babbling something that seemed to feature the word “pancakes” an awful lot, while Adrian just stood at the edge of the bed with his arms up, yawning. Mira sighed and sat up. She gave all three boys quick kisses as she picked Adrian up. He, at least, would have preferred to still be asleep; he curled up against her pillow and closed his eyes. Dennis and Luke had no such reservations, and had channeled their energy towards Chadara.

“Please, Ma! Please please _please_ , can we have chocolate chip—” Dennis asked, tugging on her arm.

“I want banana!”

“Chocolate chip pancakes! We didn’t have any all week—”

“We haven’t had banana pancakes in, like, a year!”

“Uh, no,” Mira said in her best stern voice. “We had chocolate chip pancakes on Tuesday, and banana pancakes last Sunday. And in any case, you _know_ Mama C is not allowed near the stove unless she’s cooking something out of a can.”

They turned to her, hands clasped, silently begging with their eyes. She waited for a full thirty seconds, just to increase the suspense, and then solemnly said, “I will make banana chocolate chip pancakes— _if_ the table is set by the time I get downstairs.”

There was a flurry of triumphant cheers and thank-you kisses, and the boys disappeared. Chadara chuckled to herself and cradled Adrian in her arms.

“You know, Luke’s teacher thinks he’s shy?” she asked, amused.

“They don’t put food in front of him,” Mira said idly. The faintest smell of coffee was just starting to permeate the air; they had it set on a timer. She stretched and got up, invigorated by the very scent. She looked at Chadara and Adrian, who was already dozing in his mother’s arms, and smiled. “Coming down now?”

“Oh, I think I’ll wait for the pancakes to be done, so I don’t light anything on fire,” she said airily.

Mira couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. She leaned down and kissed her wife, convinced by the smile on her lips that everything was okay.

“Again,” she reminded her softly, and Chadara swatted her away with a laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a widowed Laeta and her 11-year-old daughter Christina, plus Kore.

“MOM!” Christina bellowed up the stairs. “Have you seen my tap shoe? The left one?”

“I see everything,” Laeta affirmed. She swept the shoe off the bathroom counter and tossed it down to her daughter, who was dithering at the bottom of the stairs. “And relax! You don’t even have to be there for another two hours.”

Christina shrugged, which dislodged another shoe—she was carrying five—from her arms. The ballet slipper made a soft thump as it hit the carpet. Secretly, Laeta was pleased to see that being an overachiever was hereditary, and she smiled to herself as she went downstairs. With deft fingers, she swept a hair tie off her wrist. Her daughter had also inherited her strawberry-blonde curls, which Laeta pulled back into a tight bun.

“Can we get there early? I just want to go over my jazz routine one more time on the stage.”

“Sweetie you really don’t need to, you’ll be amazing. But yes, thirty minutes early would be acceptable.”

“Can I have coffee?” she asked hopefully.

“You’re pushing it, kid,” Laeta grinned. She drew one last bobby pin from her pocket and slipped it into place. “We’re going out for a nice dinner after the recital, and there will probably be cheesecake. Be content with that.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Christina mumbled, rolling her eyes dramatically. She had perked up, though, and hummed to herself as she finished packing her bag. “Is Kore still coming?”

“Last I heard,” Laeta said. Together, mother and daughter went into the kitchen to pack snacks and sandwiches for the long wait; Christina’s class danced in the last quarter of the recital, which meant there was three hours of twinkle toe performances before her.

“I don’t want a pink bridesmaid dress,” Christina said thoughtfully. She licked peanut butter from her thumb, which did nothing to throw light on the source of her words.

“For what?”

“For when you two get married. Pink doesn’t look good on me; I want it to be blue.”

“We’re not getting married,” Laeta said. It took a moment to form the words; she had a sudden, intense vision of a sunny spring day, and hydrangeas, and aquamarines sparkling in Kore’s ears. Before Christina could respond, her phone buzzed with a text from Kore.

_Morning, hun. Today’s the big day! Tell Christina break a leg from me._ _J I bought a dozen roses—pink and yellow. Too much?_

Laeta just stared at the screen with a dopey smile. She hadn’t felt like this in... well, it had been a while. But still, they weren’t engaged—had never even talked about it—so, really, talking about a wedding at this place was completely ridiculous. Never mind the fluttering of her heart.

“ _Sure_ you’re not,” Christina muttered.

“Oh, hush, you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gannicus and Marcus (5 months)

Gannicus was awake at three in the morning, his eyes were bloodshot, and he knew he was going to have a killer headache the next day. In most situations, he would call this a good time—but he had never been more close to panicking. With one hand he adjusted his grip on Marcus, and with the other he dialed Crixus’s number.

“Mmf.”

“When do they stop crying?”

“Never.”

“Like, in the night. When do they _sleep_?”

“Iunno. Five months-ish. ’Night.”

The line went silent, which was in direct contrast to Marcus’s unhappy wails, which rose and hit peak pitch—at least, Gannicus _hoped_ it was peak. He settled back in the rocking chair Oenomaus had bought him and gently began to bounce the baby. It was a mindless task by now; the past three months or so had been a constant routine of diapers, bottles, and crying.

“I am so not qualified for this gig,” he murmured to himself, and he ran a hand through his tangled hair.

He had been at least 95% sure Ilithyia was making a posthumous joke when he was first told he had gotten custody. Like, sure, he had helped her out when she was separated from that jackass Glaber, but what the fuck did that have to do with raising a _baby_? A baby who would someday grow into a human person who needed life advice and financial assistance.

Terrifying.

Without thinking about it, Gannicus began to hum softly—anything to drown out the crying, really. Slowly, Marcus seemed to get quieter… and then silent. Gannicus looked down at him, with his wide dark eyes and his tiny little patch of blonde hair, and gave him a tired smile.

“All better, little man?” He yawned and rubbed the boy’s soft skin. “I need a drink. But I’m not going to have one, because I am a responsible adult role model, and using alcohol to alter my mood is something alcoholics do, and—”

He yawned again. This time, Marcus did, too. His mouth formed a perfect circle and his face crinkled up like a raisin, which was ten thousand times more adorable than Gannicus would have thought it was four months ago. To be honest, he had always thought babies looked kind of like potatoes, but now he could probably trace every little line of the kid’s face from memory. His kid. Jesus Christ.

“Yeah, good thing you stopped me there. Well, little man, we’ve got a big day of sleeping and surprise-visiting Uncle Oenomaus tomorrow, because we take precedence over whatever crap he thinks he’s doing, so now would be a wonderful time to sleep.”

Marcus didn’t agree right away—because that would be far, far, _far_ too easy—but he demonstrated that he was willing to consider a cease-fire by not crying for a full six minutes. Slowly, his eyelids began to droop, and before Gannicus considered crying himself, the baby was fast asleep.


End file.
